Page 17 of 72 Hours of You

“Bubbe, this is too squeezy,” I say.

“Sydney, do you see?”

I see the door. I want to go. I want to go to Mommy.

“Look at me, bubbeleh, you don’t have to be afraid.”

I am afraid but I am also brave so I look at Bubbe. There is a pink thing over her head. It is pink and floaty numbers. It’s so bright. So pretty. I reach out and touch but my fingers go right through.

“You see?” she asks.

I nod. “Is it magic?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe.”

The doorknob to her room shakes. Someone is trying to come in. Mommy?

“LET ME IN, GODDAMN IT. JUST LET ME THE FUCK IN.”

It’s Charles. Shit. He found me.

The doorknob rattles again. Harder. He’s going to break the goddamn door.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.”

I pull on some pants, my hands shaking, and walk across the hotel room floor, the carpet cold on my feet. “Please,” I say through the door. “Everyone will hear you.”

“DO YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK,” Charles yells from the hallway.

He shoves the door and the chain breaks.

Snap.

I cover my eyes.

My heart pounds, louder, louder, louder, harder, harder, harder. Just let me die.

Just let me fucking—

I bolt up in bed, and my brain sloshes hard against my skull. My head is throbbing like someone ran over it with one of those oversized trucks for guys with tiny dicks.

My pillow is soaked in sweat and a little trickle of dried blood that apparently made it out of the Band-Aid. I have a fucked-up instinct to go crawl into Jules’s bed. But I’m too old for that. Too old to have nightmares. Or flashbacks. Whatever.

The bathroom door creaks and for one insane second I’m back in that hotel room with Charles.

“Syd?” Jules’s voice floats out over the darkness. “You were screaming.”

“Sorry.”

I’m not in that hotel room. I’m here. I try to convince myself, try to find something—anything—to grab onto.

And then I feel the weight of Jules sinking down next to me in the bed.

“I’ll just stay with you tonight,” she says. Her fingers find mine under the covers and I hold on for dear fucking life.

Eight

THERE’S A COMMOTION OUTSIDE OF SCHOOL the next day. The seniors are clumped in front of the building and everyone is buzzing with this frantic energy, shoving each other and talking faster and more high-pitched than usual. For a second, I get excited thinking someone might’ve called in a bomb threat. Maybe I can just turn around and go home.